


How to Lose Everything and Find Yourself

by murgamurg



Category: One Piece
Genre: Angst with a happy ending?, Cheating, Dark, Gen, Gets worse before it gets better, If you can consider it happy, M/M, Past ch 6 is when it gets better for those people who hate sad things, Sexual Themes, Toxic Relationship, lying, questionable morality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:29:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5965708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murgamurg/pseuds/murgamurg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a long way up when you're at rock bottom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Traitorous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Their faces were turned downward; their mouths  
> gave testimony to the cold they felt,  
> and their eyes to the grief in their broken hearts.”
> 
> \- Inferno, Canto XXXII, line 37. The Ninth Circle of Hell.

Steel-toed boots clack loudly on the sleet-slicked sidewalk. The sound bounces off the buildings of the vacant street, magnifying in the loneliness of a witching hour. The young man’s brisk pace is harried by the slivers of ice falling from the dark and bloated winter sky. Frosted fingers wrap themselves around the flaps of a navy peacoat, protecting against the ice sluicing down the outer wool.

He crosses under a lamppost, blonde hair slick in the yellow light, shivering violently and cursing whatever god deigned today’s weather. Under the awning a sharp huff exits his throat, hot breath immediately freezing in protest and clouding his face. He allows his hands to release their vice grip on his coat, instead using them to pat around the coat’s pockets.

 _Cigarettes, no, keys, ah-- here it is_.

Thin digits extract a leather square from the breast pocket, waving it over the door’s handle. Two loud clacks later, and fine fabrics defrost over the lobby’s linoleum floor.

In the elevator a strange man peers at him from the polished metal of the door. He’s tall and lanky, like his legs are too long for his body, like he’s too thin for his bones. Sallow skin seems white under the flourescent bulbs, stark against the blonde hair plastered to his head from sleet. Dark purple bags and stubble mar his otherwise handsome face, a reminder of another late night.

The door opens and he steps out into the threadbare hallway. It’s only a few steps to the door of the small apartment, the best he could afford. He frowns to at the meager kitchen to his right when as he closes the door gently behind him. Formica countertops and cabinets give him indigestion on the best day, but paired with the white appliances old as himself and fading yellow he’s downright nauseous. Every time he walks in the door.

This is not home, no. This will never be, _home_. It’s just the place that he lives.

He sheds his coat to the rack. Sheds his boots underneath that. He moves into the kitchen, defrosting fingers that feel like they’re about to explode grab the fridge handle and pull it open.

He closes it immediately. There’s nothing he wants to eat in it, anyway.

Instead his fingers, now more accustomed to the normal temperature, wrap themselves around the stem of a wine glass and a bottle. He moves to the couch and pours himself a glass of the aromatic liquid before falling awkwardly onto the cushions. The glittering liquid mocks him and he drinks deeply from it, grateful for the heat it spreads down his throat.

He looks at his phone, blue light plastering itself across his face in the otherwise dark apartment. Wonders if he should be expecting company.

As if on cue, the intercom crackles to life. Blue eyes find it with a glare, like he can see the person on the other side.

“Hey cook. Let me up?” It says. It’s almost a growl, slurred syllables confirming _yes it’s him_ and kick-starting the adrenaline that lances across his chest. He crosses the floor on silent toes, like the smallest noise would scare the other man away.

 _Tell him no,_ his pride tells him. _Tell him to go the fuck away._

“Sure,” he hears his voice say. His fingers press the button that unlocks the door floors below.

Something dark curls in his gut, tingling in the pit of his abdomen. Something sick and broken.

Slim hips lean on the counter and wait, sipping on his wine. He lets it roll over his tongue, concentrating on the sour note, the bite at the back of his throat.

“It’s open,” He says to the knock on the door.

The man enters the room, closing the door behind him quietly. Sanji takes him in; the hair not unlike moss, the chiseled features and broad shoulders. The slight wobble in his step as he takes off his jacket --  why he’s here, of course. Why he’s ever here.

The man moves towards the blonde without hesitation, placing one tan hand on the counter at the blonde’s hip. He presses their loins together, and Sanji lets out a low groan.

The blonde downs his wine, placing the glass on the counter behind him. His fingers thread into grassy strands as the man’s other hand comes around his waist. Blunt fingers splay on his back, applying light pressure.

Their breath mingles. He can smell the sweat and musk, the sweet tang of whisky. Something chalky; the smell of lipstick. An overtone of tangerines and tea.

“Does she know you’re here?” He breathes. He’d be lying if he actually wanted to know the answer.

Dark eyes lock with blue, pupils so wide his eyes are black. The raw desire contained there takes Sanji’s breath away, and just like every time before, roots him to the spot.

“No.” The man breathes against the blonde’s chapped lips.

Their mouths crash together, strong hands hoist Sanji's ass onto the counter. The glass tumbles and crashed on the floor, shattering over the tile. The blonde ignores it. Ignores the shards that work their way into his chest, the sharp edges that rip him apart.

Zoro takes him right there on the counter. Even in the afterglow, they both know they’re not finished. A twisted sort of desperation has the blonde clinging to the man’s muscled shoulders as he’s carried to the bedroom, plundering Zoro’s mouth with his tongue, trying to crawl inside his skin.

In the bedroom he makes it his turn. His turn to shove that shitty face into the pillow, to make him feel _something_ , anything but contempt. A wolfish smile fixes itself upon his face when the other man’s hands clench in the sheets, when his face contorts in pleasure and his back shudders.

This pleasure is all he has of him.

He rolls off the other man and flops onto the bed, limbs limp with fatigue. He lights a cigarette, tar dripping into his lungs like water from a leaky faucet.

Company for the cold that settled in long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is something I've been trying to work on for a while? This first chapter is a re-write of an earlier one-shot. I know I have other stories to finish... but the rest of this story isn't letting me go without writing it. Working towards weekly updates with this one so I can finish it up and then go back to my other things. 
> 
> I know some of you have probably read this before, angst is kinda very hard for me to write because it affects me a lot. So I've ended up posting/deleting this a few times. But this time we're going forward with the real deal. Thanks for your attention and comments :)


	2. The Fraudulent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That, you should know, is Thais the whore, who,  
> when her lover asked her, ‘Do you hold me dear?’  
> answered. ‘More than dear. No, I adore you!’”
> 
>  - Inferno, Canto XVIII, line 135. The Eighth Circle of Hell.

He watches a bird through the window. It’s silhouetted by the gray and puffy clouds, heavy with the lament of late winter.

It’s a big, black, ugly thing. A void of color in an already colorless wasteland. It’s perched on this sad and bare tree; the poor thing laden down with enough ice that he’s surprised it hasn’t fallen over yet.

The bird caws. Maybe it’s a raven, or a crow. But it caws, a grating and terrible sound Sanji can hear even through the window, before using that big black beak to clean its feathers with fastidious concentration. Then it fixes its beady black eyes onto Sanji’s own, a glare as cold as the weather burning into his retina. Like it knows the secrets he’s hiding.

“He just spends so much time with Luffy lately,” Nami comments behind him. The bird flaps away when her voice pulls him back to the shitty office and his shitty job and his shitty life. “I mean I know they’re best friends and all… But sometimes I wonder if there’s something else going on, you know?”

He cocks his head to the side with guarded interest. Desperately he tries to ignore the beetles crawling under his skin, slicing into his muscles from the topic of conversation.

_Luffy, huh? That’s what he’s been telling her?_

“What ever do you mean, my dearest?” His faked lilt is perfect. Almost.  

“I mean he always shows up wasted at the weirdest hours, _reeking_ of smoke and booze.” She elaborates, still flipping through the file cabinet in front of her. “It’s gross. We’re not in college anymore.”

“Luffy is,” Sanji chuckles bitterly to himself, confident that Nami won’t understand the subtext. Though the shitty marimo found himself a good alibi, he can’t help the next question that spills from his jealous mouth.

“Do you really think he’s long term material?” He inquires casually, busying himself with papers to keep his hands from trembling.

"I dunno, you tell me?” She retorts. The pads of her fingers release a stack of papers onto the desk as another question arrives on her tongue. She turns her piercing eyes upon his own, and he resists the urge to cower.

“What broke up you and Ace?” She insists, like she’s desperate to know. ”You guys dated like, _forever_ , right?"  
  
He jolts upright at the question, completely taken off guard. There’s a distant friction against his fingers as the stack of papers slip from his grasp, and he finds himself helpless as he watches them scatter all over the floor at Nami’s feet.

He still remembers  the lights; the energy and excitement. The bodies thrumming, pulsing, dancing in celebration of the end of midterms their sophomore year at university. The cold glass of gin and tonic he held in his hand, wet slip of condensation on his skin. One drink turning into two, turning into three, and more still. The adrenaline, the rush of competition as he dared someone with stupid hair like moss to a contest. Arousal slicing its path across his abs and down his belly, branding him with desire. Hot mouths, tongues flavored by sour and bitter drinks. Rough hands pulling him through a door, pushing him on a wall, the familiar touch of a familiar lover.

The look on Ace’s face in the doorway of the stairwell sticks in his mind’s eye. They tried to convince him they were too drunk to know who each other were. Crippling tendrils of anxiety grip at the base of his skull as he wonders if  Ace ever told.

The universe weighs down on his shoulders, and it takes all his composure to keep them from twitching. He steels his gaze against his beautiful angel’s unforgiving scrutiny. He flexes his thighs slowly, sliding off the desktop he’d been sitting on and bends over to pick up the papers he dropped. He prays his hands aren’t shaking enough to betray his thoughts.

"It was really nasty, my sweet,” He directs her away from the issue with a saccharine tongue, stacking the leaflets against the desk. “You know it was. I'd rather not go into the details.”

The way her hands sit on her hips and the way those hips cock to the side tells him she’s far more perceptive than she lets on. Those gorgeous eyes peer at him, plump lips flattening into something like pity. Pity for things left unsaid, and poor guesses of things she -- hopefully -- knows nothing about.

She turns back to the filing cabinet, and a long breath slips past her lips. Sanji watches as her fine hands find their way into the stack of records she left open. "I know how much you hate Zoro, but I don’t think he’s like that.”

His stomach writhes in dread, guilt curling against his belly. _She doesn’t know how far she is from the truth._

“He’s got such a big heart, you know?" she continues, musing aloud and oblivious to the blonde’s inner struggle. “I keep trying to ask him what’s wrong, but he won’t tell me. I mean we've been dating for two years, he should be able to talk to me, right? ”

Something claws inside his ear and temples. It’s a familiar feeling, and the voice a sinister reminder. _He’s got such a big heart_ , it coos in his ear. _He's been dating her for two years. You've only fucked him for eight._

He winces as slick pinpricks of blood drip down the shell of his ear. He inhales the scent of copper as it pools in his ear canal; overflows down his neck. With every heartbeat, he can feel it sloshing over onto the floor, staining it a dark crimson.

He smiles at her, showing his full face. He hopes it appears as more than a show of teeth, he hopes he can fool her. His jaw clenches as he grits through the pain of the lance that protrudes from his chest. He’s wolf in sheep's clothing, leering at a doe.

“I’m sure it will work out my dear,” He assures her.


	3. The Violent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They sunk their teeth in the one who sat trembling,  
> and when they had torn his body to pieces  
> they carried off all those ghastly limbs."
> 
> \- Inferno, Canto XIII, line 127. The Seventh Circle of Hell.

Sanji doesn’t even look as the door opens and shuts behind him. He can tell from the thud of the boots across the kitchen tile and the oppressive silence that it’s the last person he wants to see right now.

"You going somewhere?" Zoro asks gruffly, and Sanji turns to face him.

"Yeah." He replies, removing the unlit cigarette from his mouth and placing it behind his ear. It’s a simple answer, and he’s not going to elaborate just for that moron’s sake.

He doesn’t miss how Zoro’s square jaw is clenching tight, how his dark eyes dart through the boxes scattered around the apartment. Silence hangs thick and uncomfortable between them, and Sanji returns to his packing. He almost doesn’t hear the next words that exit Zoro’s mouth.

"I broke up with her," he rumbles.

Sanji’s hands freeze, and he manages not to drop the vase he’d been about to wrap in paper. He sets the vase back on the coffee table and straightens slowly, turning to meet Zoro’s gaze. His eyes are going to bug out of his skull. That bullheaded dumbass is looking at him sadly, and there’s a softness to his normal hard edged glare. It’s an expression Sanji’s never seen on his face, and suddenly he realizes the mosshead is _sober_.

 _What the ever living fuck._ He wants to vomit.

The spell breaks when a trill noise erupts from his pocket. His phone vibrates against his leg, and he fumbles it out and to his ear with hands that are much steadier than he’d expected. He doesn’t even need to look at the caller id to know who it is.

"Hello, Nami dear--” He greets her, but is met with heart wrenching, indistinguishable sobs. A knife digs into his chest as he feigns ignorance. “Honey, what's wrong?"

He plops down on the couch, hand on his forehead and stares at his shoes. By the way she’s rambling and wailing he knows it must have just happened. And that asshole came straight _here_.

"He what? Are you serious?” He responds appropriately. “What a _fucking_ bastard."

He leans back on the couch and locks eyes with Zoro, crossing his free arm over his chest. Anger bubbles in his chest as he glares at the other man still standing awkwardly by the door. Zoro’s fingers clench and unclench and he looks away, unable to bear the weight of Sanji’s glare.  

"I know. I know. Hey, shh, no, that’s not true and you know it.” Sanji stands up, walks over to the window overlooking his small balcony. They can’t have this whole conversation right now, especially not with Zoro listening in. He’s got to get her off the phone.

“Listen, hey, it's gonna be alright,” He starts. “I'm sorry hon, I'm in the middle of packing. I'll come over for ice cream when I finish ok?" He hopes she’ll be alright in the meantime.

Fingers press against his temples and he sighs, forehead leaning against the sliding glass door. She’s calmer now, and he’s glad for it. "Yeah. Love you too sweetheart," He coos quietly.

He clicks the phone shut.

The next noise it makes is a loud smack against the side of Zoro's _dumb fucking face_.

"You fucking _prick_!" Sanji bellows, unable to control himself any longer.

Zoro clutches his cheek. "Ow! What the hell, cook!?" There’ll be a bruise there later, and Sanji congratulates himself. _Serves that asshole right._  

"I didn't ask for this shit!" Sanji throws an arm out violently, gesturing to the situation. His teeth are clenched, and fingers clutch at already ragged blonde strands. Bare feet pace uncomfortably in a circle. "What the fuck were you _thinking_!" He yells again, and the way his heart is beating it might explode from the adrenaline and stress.

_A lit match falls on a bridge made of flint and tinder._

"What the hell is your problem?!” Zoro yells right back without hesitation. Fighting is normal, it’s what they _know_ , so that’s what they do. Instead of talking about the black tar that threatens to swallow them  both.

Sanji crosses the apartment and gets right up in Zoro’s face, screaming. "You broke her fucking heart, you _dick_! You're a terrible fucking person!"

_The fire catches. The wind stirs it on. Tenuous fingers of flame reach out to grasp the fragile supports. They crackle and burst as they ignite._

"So what does that make you, huh?” The blockhead roars back. “You were the one fucking me behind her back!"

Sanji flinches away from the words like a slap to the face.

 _The blaze rages. It consumes everything in its path with equal malice._   
  
"Shit," Zoro curses, bringing his volume down to a loud whisper and running a hand through his hair. Those dark eyes are accusing as they snap back to the blonde. "I thought you'd be fucking happy."

"Why the _hell_ would I be happy?” The blonde jabs back. He doesn’t understand an ounce of this moron’s logic. He thinks of the look on the other man’s face when he came in the door, and how it was so foreign. How he came here _right after_ he shattered Nami’s entire world.

Sanji straightens his back and peers at the other man as all the pieces fall into place. The realization hits him like a brick wall. “Did you think you were gonna come in here and sweep me off my feet or some shit?"

_A sick sound as the bridge bends, flaming pieces dropping into the depths._

Zoro doesn’t answer. He doesn’t meet the cook’s eyes, and his jaw clenches. Unclenches.  

"You fucking did, didn't you." Sanji lets out a laugh that’s bitter and cold. He can’t believe this is happening. "Wow. Too little, too late. Fucking _asshole_ ," he hisses.

_Nothing is left but ashes taken away on the wind, or falling into the water below._

Zoro tries to bargain, but Sanji’s had enough. "Just let me--"

"Go fuck yourself,” he laughs again. No joy crosses his face. He’s empty, completely _numb_ as he realizes the magnitude of what just happened. When he speaks again it’s barely a whisper. He can’t even _look_ at Zoro anymore.

“Get the hell out. Never come here again."


	4. The Heretical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The tombs’ lids were all open, and the cries  
> that issued from within them were so tortured  
> they could only have come from the wretched damned.”  
>   
> \- Inferno, Canto IX, line 121. The Sixth Circle of Hell.

He frowns at his reflection in the lift’s door. The bruise on his cheek is mocks him under the harsh lights. It stretches purple across his cheek bone, curling up around his eye socket where it turns more green and yellow, fading out before it hits his nose. Normally his complexion does an excellent job hiding bruises he gains from their frequent fights, but it’s been a week and the damn thing is still stark and visible.

That shitty cook must have thrown his phone as hard as he fucking could.

The lift opens and he steps out. He makes no attempt to muffle his loud steps as he tromps towards the cook’s apartment. Last week isn’t the first time that dumbass dart brow told him to never come back. But he’s back out of spite, like that fruity fucker could tell him what to anyway. Maybe by now the cook has calmed down from his hissy fit. Maybe he’d even let Zoro stay here. It’s a better idea than crashing on Luffy’s couch until he finds a new place to live.

He stops in front of the door and knocks, something he’s never done. For some reason, there’s no usual haze of cigarette smoke in this section of the hallway.  

The door cracks open after a moment.

“Yo,” The guy says. Zoro can only see half his face, but one thing’s for sure: this isn’t the cook.

His stomach tries to crawl out of his throat.

“Where’s the cook.” He demands. It’s not a question.

The guy’s eyes look down the hall behind Zoro, his body shifts back and forth. It’s obvious that Zoro’s making him uncomfortable, the bruise on his face makes him look like a scruffy thug more than he already does on any normal day.

Not-cook starts to close the door. “Look man, I dunno who--”

Zoro’s hand snaps forward, holds it open. “Sanji. Sanji Black. He owns this flat,” He clarifies in earnest. The cook’s name is foreign on his tongue. It feels filthy, saying it for the first time to a stranger.

He wonders what the curly cook would think. He’d probably raise one of those stupid eyebrows at him, and say something snarky.

The guy lets out a shaky laugh. “Not anymore bro. My lease started three days ago.”

“You… _what_?” His lungs won’t gather air. He mutters an apology and steps back. Not-cook slams the door shut. There’s distinctive clicks of several deadbolts locking on the other side, but Zoro doesn’t care about that any more.   

The ground shifts underneath his feet, and he lets his back hit the opposite wall. He’s still trying to regain his breath, and it’s like someone’s punched him in the diaphragm. His hands cover his face and heat tingles around his nose and _fuck_ . There’s someone else in Sanji’s apartment -- there’s someone else in the cook’s apartment and he _can’t stand it_.

He has to get out of here.  

Booted feet carry him out of the apartment building. Hands get shoved into the pockets of his jacket, and he keeps his head down against the sunset. He has no idea where he’s going, until he finds himself in front of the restaurant. The cook’s restaurant.

He peers up at the neon sign of the Baratie, and heads inside.

Zoro flat out ignores the hostess he’s never seen before. He walks straight back into the kitchen, glaring at anyone who gets in his way. He’s looking for the one person who _will_ know where the cook is.

He throws open the back office door. “Where’s the curly brow?”

The old man barely looks up from the papers he’s reading. He cocks a skeptical eyebrow at the green-haired man in his doorway. “He’s gone. Forget about him,” he says simply, before returning to his work.  

The old man must know more than he lets on.

Frustration claws at Zoro’s throat: “What the shit do you mean he’s _gone_?”

“I mean he’s gone,” The old man growls low, throwing the papers down. He stands up from his chair and leans on the desk with both hands, fixing Zoro with a menacing glare. Well, he knows where the cook learned to glare like that.

“Get the hell out of my restaurant, punk,” He commands. “Or I’ll give you another shiner to match.”

He clenches his fist so hard, and feels warm blood trickle down his fingers. He can’t get into a fight here, especially with the cook’s old man. He’d never hear the end of it from that prissy shithead. So he settles for a feral growl before stalking out the restaurant’s back door.

He wipes the blood on his jeans. Fingers tap against the phone in his pocket. He hasn’t called the cook in ages. Should he try? Would the cook even answer?

The phone’s at his ear, dialing the cook’s number before he can think about it further.

“ _We’re sorry, this number is no longer in service--_ ”

“FUCK!” He screams, and shatters his phone on the pavement behind the restaurant. That shitty fucking cook. That stupid fucking curly brow, how _dare_ he, how _dare_ he cut him off like this--

The back door of the Baratie opens and Zoro bolts, not willing to risk another encounter with the old man. He pays less attention to where his feet take him, too frustrated and _wow_ \-- he’s actually fucking _heartbroken_ that the damn cook has gone to such lengths. He feels the ache in his chest, the sharp ripping of tissue that tells him _you fucked up, dumbass, that dartboard wasn’t lying when he told you it’s too little too late._

He buys a handle of vodka at the next convenience store. The streets have all moved and he has no idea where the hell he is in this damn city, but he cuts down an alley anyway and pops open the bottle. The only way to shut up his guilty brain is to smother it with as much alcohol as he can swallow.  

He slumps down to his ass against the brick, head between his knees and bottle in his face. The weight of his choices pull him down. There’s no telling how long he sits there, but the sun’s coming up and his stomach growls. It’s like something short-circuits and he’s thinking of food, _Sanji’s food_ , the way it always tastes amazing and the way he looks when Zoro stays over and the dartbrow makes them both breakfast in the morning--

He kills that train of thought by killing the bottle. He could probably act sober enough to get more, and why the hell not? It’s not like he could fuck it up worse. It’s not like there’s anything else he can _do_.

At this point, he just wants to forget.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I apologize for this chapter. And I apologize in advance for the next chapter... After that, we're turning this boat around.


	5. The Wrathful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They were beating each other, not just with their fists,  
> but with their heads, their chests, and their feet,  
> and they tore each other apart with their teeth.”
> 
> \- Inferno, Canto VII, line 112. The Fifth Circle of Hell.

The cops pick him up eventually. Of course it’s not long until there were too many calls about his drunk ass wandering aimless and lost, too wasted to get more booze. He knows the one that picks him up, a fucking huge dickhead that always smokes cigars. The guy offers to take him home, like he has a couple times before, but Zoro refuses. It’s not his home anymore. 

“You know Monkey D. Luffy?” He mumbles through the grate. 

“That fucking brat.” The cop shakes his head. “Yeah, I know where he lives. We’ll be there soon.”  

The cop drops him on Luffy’s doorstep. Zoro waves as best he can in thanks, and watches the taillights of the cruiser as they disappear around the corner. Loud laughter erupts from behind the house, and he makes his way towards the chain link gate. He recognizes the voices, and doesn’t think twice before entering the backyard. 

"Luffy!" He calls, oblivious to his own slurred words. 

Luffy has his brother over. Zoro’s always been friendly with Ace, if not a little strained during the period where Ace was dating Sanji. There’s a third person though, and Zoro recognizes him as Marco. He’s never spoken more than two words to the guy, but Luffy seems to like him well enough.

They’re sitting in chairs littered with beer cans, all arranged around a makeshift fire pit -- Ace’s handiwork. The backyard itself is little more than a concrete slab with some patches of poorly kept grass, so there’s not much danger. The laughter stops as Zoro wobbles towards them, and Luffy pulls his hat down over his eyes. 

Ace stands up and intercepts him with a grin. If Zoro were sober, he would have noticed the strain in his cheeks. "Zoro! Bro, we haven’t heard from you for days! Where the fuck have you been?" he asks, but Zoro doesn’t respond. His eyes are focused on Luffy, and why the hell his jovial best friend looks so fucking  _ serious _ . 

Ace’s hands grip his shoulders, and he straightens Zoro’s stance. “Woah... are you  _ drunk _ ?”

Luffy’s brother turns to speak over his shoulder, gray eyes never leaving Zoro’s face. "I’d go easy on him, Lu. He's obviously having a hard time--"

"Zoro," Luffy says, pushing his hat up with his thumb. Zoro's stomach drops when Luffy’s eyes fix on him, and he knows what’s coming. 

"You hurt Nami, Zoro."

Zoro lets out a long sigh. He leans into Ace’s hands but the older man moves away and back to his chair when Luffy stands up. Zoro looks at his feet instead; takes a step to steady himself. 

"I know,” He sighs. “But I just couldn't-- "  _ I couldn’t lie anymore _ , he wants to say, but stops himself. Thinks better of his words. "She deserves better than me."

Luffy's eyes are narrow when he looks back up. He’s not satisfied, but Zoro isn’t prepared for what comes out of his mouth next. 

"You hurt Sanji, too."

So that stupid cook told. It throws a switch on Zoro’s anger and he’s instantly on the defensive. His eyes narrow, remorse hardens into indignance. His fists clench against his sides and he’s ready to  _ murder _ . "Fuck that  _ stupid cook _ !” He roars. “He fucking  _ left  _ me here! He didn't even say  _ goodbye _ !"

A fist cracks into the side of Zoro's face. He doesn’t even try to block it, and pain lances across his face as the bruise re-opens and he staggers backwards from the force. 

Over Luffy’s shoulder he can see Ace, eyes wide and stunned into silence. Marco keeps him from stopping Luffy, hands wrapped around the freckled man’s biceps. 

"How long." Luffy demands. Zoro’s attention is brought back, and he can see the crazy boy lining up for another punch. The boy’s eyes show so much hurt and _ anger  _ that Zoro pleads the ground would swallow him whole; that his whole existence would cease. He never thought he’d be someone to cause Luffy to look like  _ that _ .   

"What?" He asks, voice hoarse. He really doesn’t understand the question. 

"How long were you  _ hurting them _ ?!" Luffy shouts in his face. 

_ Oh. Shit. _ Zoro can’t lie, not to Luffy. He tries not to look at Ace; it would be so much better if he wasn’t here to hear this. Ace and Sanji met in college.  

"High school," he answers. It’s barely a whisper, but Ace still hears it. 

"What the  _ fuck _ ?! Are you fucking  _ kidding  _ me--" The freckled man is shushed by his boyfriend, and another fist connects with Zoro’s jaw. 

Luffy wastes no time getting hits on his ribs, and at least one in his gut. Zoro takes it all and they only stop when falls to his knees, sitting back on his heels. He lets his hands fall in front, bloody and cracked knuckles thump on the concrete. Useless against Luffy’s punishment.

"Fuck, Luffy. I fucked up so  _ bad _ ." He feels his throat closing up, heat clawing at his nose. He can’t stop the tears this time, and they run hot and fat down his cheeks. 

"Yeah, you did." Luffy says softly. Zoro closes his eyes against another wave of emotion at the raw  _ disappointment _ in Luffy’s voice. He let his best friend down. Shit, he let  _ all  _ his friends down. He’s a terrible fucking person. The lowest of the low.

He vaguely hears a scuffle of boots and heated whispers as Marco shoves Ace inside the house, the door slamming behind them.    
  
A warm body sits down next to him, and he knows it’s Luffy. He tries to stop the stutter in his breath, tries to even it out because when the hell did he get so fucking  _ pathetic _ . Luffy leans against him and radiates warmth and care for the first time in  _ days _ Zoro finds himself grounded -- able to breathe, able to be. 

At least Luffy still loves him. 


	6. The Hoarders, The Wasters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All of the gold that is beneath the moon,  
> or ever was, would not be enough  
> to give rest to even one of these weary souls.”
> 
> \- Inferno, Canto VII, line 64. The Fourth Circle of Hell.

 

Zoro doesn’t see Sanji for another _five years_.

* * *

He takes a deep breath, running a hand down his face. Late November always means the grocery store is more occupied than normal, but he didn’t think it would be _this_ packed. He’s just trying to compare cleaner labels and figure out which one will get ketchup stains off his ceiling -- _damn_ that rubber best friend of his -- but people keep fucking jostling him as they try to get down the crowded aisle.

Zoro’s about done with the whole thing by this point. He reaches over to put them both back on the shelf when someone almost bowls him over. The guy doesn’t even flinch as he opens his mouth to cuss Zoro out.

"Watch where you're going, you shitty--"

Zoro’s eyes lock on pale blue ones and time stops. He watches as those lips form one of his favorite words (seriously, he’s calling _that_ word his favorite now?) and recognition blindsides the blonde.

"--marimo." Sanji says. Thin, pale lips press together in a line.

For a moment, Zoro can do nothing but stare. He’s spent so much time thinking about what he would do if Sanji ever showed up again, so much time trying to forget anything ever happened between them. He’s tried to convince himself that no, he never _actually_ felt anything for that shitty cook but all his thoughts go out the window now that the man is alive and in front of him and _breathing_.

Sanji’s older now, the freckles barely visible on his pale skin darkened to a dull taupe in his time away. Thin rimmed, rectangular glasses hang on the bridge of his nose. His jaw is trimmer now, less round, and covered in the fine blonde stubble-- something the Sanji he knew would _never_ have allowed. His clothes are smart but casual and compliment him like always; and somewhere Zoro wonders if he’s still as strong and beautiful under them as he used to be.

"Hey." Zoro manages finally, unsure and hesitant.  
  
"...Hi,” Sanji responds after a moment. His hands are limp at his sides, lips still pressed into that tight line. It isn’t hard to tell that Sanji isn’t all that happy to see him. He thinks the cook would have preferred to never see Zoro again, and somewhere in his chest, Zoro shares that sentiment.

He scratches the back of his head, looking down at his basket, not really seeing the items collected there. Tries to pick one of the billion questions in his head.

"You're... back in town?" He asks, trying to start something that resembles a conversation.

The cook lets out a long sigh. He brushes some hair from his eyes, and Zoro follows the movement. "Uh.. yeah,” He replies. “The old man can’t take care of his own damn self anymore. I’m… _back_ , to help out.”

"Oh.” If the conversation was uncomfortable before, it was worse now. “I’m sorry," Zoro offers, unable to think of anything else but letting the conversation fall flat. He moves out of the way so a young boy can grab something from the shelf behind him.

"What, um..." The cook starts, but pauses as a woman tries to make her way past them down the aisle. Zoro watches as Sanji moves out of the way and gives a slight bow. "What are you up to these days?" He asks when he turns back.

Zoro shrugs. "Not much…” He trails off, and nods to the end of the aisle. Sanji gets the message and starts moving with him. He’s glad for it -- as much as he wants to talk to the cook, the people in this aisle are extremely irritating, and he does still have to pick up bread.

He continues when they emerge from the crowd, searching for the bread aisle. Hopefully it didn’t move today.  “Got a steady job at Luffy's dad's gym. Not very exciting. Pays better than the bike shop, though."

"Those guys are still around here? Man." A smirk grace’s Sanji’s face as he shakes his head. Was he the first person to see the cook since he’s been back? If that’s the case, Zoro knows the cook has probably missed everyone, especially after leaving so abruptly.

"Yeah... You should --” he stops himself. _You should come over sometime_ are the treacherous words on his lips. He has no right to ask that, not anymore.

“You should go by and see them," he finishes.

Sanji gives an agreeable hum. He’s admiring a cluster of fruit, index and thumb perched upon his pondering chin.

Zoro manages to find the right aisle and plucks a loaf of bread off the shelf, along with a few other sauces for his dinner. It doesn’t take him long to realize that Sanji’s watching him with a curious glint in his eye.

"You're not really going to cook all that together, are you?" That shitty cook asks him, snickering to himself, and Zoro turns back with a cocked eyebrow.

"What's wrong with it?" He challenges.

Sanji snarks back, not missing a beat. "Dumbass. Those flavors don't compliment each other at all. You think you'd have picked something up from me, all those years you watched me cook.”

"Sorry, I've been lacking your influence of late," Zoro chuckles, but snaps his jaw shut as he realizes the words that just spilled from his mouth. Fuck. _How could you fuck everything up so soon, you idiot?_

He looks over at the cook, wary of his reaction. Instead, Sanji is quiet and looking elsewhere, chewing on his lip.

Zoro knows that look. He straightens his back; schools his face like his heart isn’t leaping in his chest. "Do you want to go get a coffee or something?”

"Yes," the cook replied immediately.

* * *

The cool sunset in the window only highlighted how mature Sanji's face had become. He looked downright adorable, rosy cheeks and fluffy hair, all wrapped in a scarf as he sipped on his espresso. His other hand is relaxed across the small table, just within Zoro’s reach.

Zoro fiddles with the glued edge of the sleeve on his own paper cup to keep from reaching out and touching those calloused fingers. He can’t quite reach over the bridge; that fragile span that stretches between them. He’s wary of all the water underneath.

He knows it will drown him, eventually.

He only manages to catch the end of whatever rant the cook is on about.  "You know people always talk about how much they hate places like this, how pretentious they are. But look at all these people. How can a large majority of the population hate it so much but still come here on a regular basis?"

Zoro laughs a bit. He’s still distracted. "Hah, yeah."

That uncomfortable silence settles between them, _again_ . Zoro’s been fighting it ever since they left the grocery. He hates it; it’s like they were never friends at all. Like they can’t even be _civil_.

"Sanji, I'm sorry." He blurts out.

The cook locks eyes with him, sits up straight. "What?" He asks, raising an eyebrow, his eyes wide. Zoro’s not sure if it’s because he finally said his name, or because it’s what they both wanted to hear. To be honest, Zoro’d rather drown in _them_ , those endless eyes, instead of whatever the hell that shit is keeping them apart.

"I'm sorry for everything,” He continues. The cup’s paper sleeve is shredded to bits. “I... I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Back then, I mean," He clarifies, brushing a hand down his face. He doesn’t look at the blonde across the table. He can’t.

Sanji lets out a long sigh. His gray eyes flick back to the man across the table as the blonde leans a hand on his neck, looking out the window. His lips are pressed into that line again, like he’s holding something back. And Zoro _hates_ it.

"It was a long time ago," the cook says, waving his hand. A dismissal. Like it never even happened.  

"Yeah," Zoro croaks with a wry smile, heart sinking. A rock falling into an endless, dark pool.

Sanji takes a deep breath, turning from the window and leaning his back against it instead. His eyes flick between the people inside the coffee shop, and Zoro knows it just helps him think. "I told Nami, you know. About everything," Sanji remarks lowly, taking a sip from his espresso.

"I know. She had a very... creative way of getting revenge." Zoro’s face contorts into a grimace at the memory.

A smile curls at Sanji's lip as he takes another sip. "Oh?"

The pieces fall like blocks into place in Zoro’s mind. Sanji’s smug expression tells him all he needs to know. His brow raises, and he fixes the cook with a scathing glare. "Don't tell me you had something to do with it,” He smacks his hand on the table, ”She burned like half my clothes! And my favorite chair!"

Sanji shrugs, still not looking at Zoro, but not flustered in the slightest. That smirk is still plastered across his face. "I had no idea she was so vindictive."

Zoro runs a hand through his hair. He huffs like a spoilt child. “Shit... Fuck you guys. I had to wear the same shirt for like two weeks straight."

Sanji fails at hiding his low chuckles.

A short silence settles between them as Zoro thinks of Nami. It’s less awkward, now that he has something to talk about. "I dunno if you've talked to her lately,” He wonders. “She's doing pretty well apparently, is holding down a job and has a new place and everything."

"Yeah… so I’ve heard,” Sanji says. “She still talks to you?" He asks.

Their eyes lock again and Zoro tries to not let it bother him. He fails miserably, letting his eyes flick away over the rafters because he can’t just stare at the man without trying to jump him.

"She didn't for a while,” He shrugs, still avoiding eye contact. “Luffy had enough one day and locked us in a room until we made up."

"Tch. Sounds like Luffy," The cook muses, and the silence that falls this time is nothing short of amicable.

It’s not long after that they finish their coffee and exit the shop. When they stop at their cars, Zoro pauses.

“Will I see you again?" he asks. If it were someone else, he might feel ashamed. But it was Sanji.

They should try to be friends at least… _right_?

The corners of Sanji’s lips pull down into a tight frown. "Zoro... " he starts, but trails off. He shakes his head, looking at Zoro again with a strained smile. "Come by the restaurant if you want. It's on west 5th. Bring Luffy even."

To himself, Zoro denies that that _thing_ swelling in his chest is hope.

"Alright," he responds, hands in his pockets. He watches in the cold as Sanji drives away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry if this is terrible, i tried


End file.
